


Last Resort

by Zenniet



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Dry Humping, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Other, Sticky, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenniet/pseuds/Zenniet
Summary: All out of options, Megatron finds a new way to get rid of his charge.---Done as a request
Relationships: Megatron/His Fusion Cannon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 65





	Last Resort

Whether it was the nights spent alone or the heat of the battles over the past few days, Megatron just couldn’t seem to shake the insistent heat that dwelled in his tanks. He’d tried stroking his spike or fingering his valve and all other manner of self-service that came to his processor, to no avail. He was still ruthlessly charged up and irritably short tempered. He had to do something about this before it started to affect his performance out in the field, if it hadn’t begun to already.

Now, Megatron’s servo was desperately jerking his spike as his back arched off the berth and his plating burned hot with his charge. His servo hurriedly worked his spike, the other rubbing his anterior node, but nothing was quite working. Though he knew that if he tried to recharge while so pent up his processor might fry, so he _had_ to figure out a way to get his charge out.

As he tried to dip the servo on his valve lower, he had to spread his legs more to accommodate the large barrel of his fusion cannon, where it was mounted on his arm. _That_ gave him an idea.

He quickly detached the fusion cannon and checked it over. It wouldn’t fire without being connected to him to draw power from, so this should be okay. He looked down the barrel of it and into its chamber. What met him was the sight of jutting, probably sharp pieces of metal. So fragging it with his spike was out of the question.

He forced the fusion cannon onto the berth and straddled it, his thighs lightly squeezing the rounded metal as he lowered himself to press his heated valve mesh to it. It was cold, as he expected, but it still made him gasp. He gave an experimental rut of his hips, dragging his sensitive mesh over it. His anterior node caught on one of its ridges and his optics squeezed shut. The unforgiving solidity of the metal, with his weight put behind his motions, felt completely foreign to him.

One servo gripping the barrel of the cannon, the other grasping his spike, he started to cant his hips and grind his valve down on the smooth metal. His servo pumped his spike in time with his controlled thrusts, his thumb teasing over the slit where lubricant was welling up and slicking his motions.

Somewhere in his processor, he berated himself for being so needy and desperate that he would even _think_ to hump and rut against his fusion cannon to find relief. He chastised himself for not simply going to his ranks and finding some mech, dying for his attention, and take them to his berth. No, instead, he was alone with his fusion cannon between his legs and his valve producing more lubricant than it ever had.

His embarrassment and his frame’s enthusiastic reception to all of this only made him want to chase his overload more. He’d been so pent up, he couldn’t possibly bring himself to stop now. His processor wandered, searching for something to latch on to. What if one of his army walked in on him? Would he stop? What if it was one of the Autobots?

His thighs clenched around the barrel of the fusion cannon, and his valve squeezed around nothing. His spike pulsed in his servo and dribbled out more lubricant onto his digits as he furiously stroked it.

His vocalizer let loose gasps and pops of static, intermixed with low growls and primal grunts. It almost made him sound like he was actually claiming another mech, instead of trying to- and succeeding at- self servicing with his own weapon.

His cooling fans screamed with the effort of keeping him below the redline, and his engine whined at the stress it was under. So much charge racing through his frame at once, all rocketing towards his peak.

And he finally hit it. One hard buck of his hips and his servo tugging on his spike had him finally, finally falling into a satisfying overload. His vocalizer roared, not caring about if he was heard or not. The servo on the barrel of the fusion cannon gripped it hard enough to press divots into it. His spike erupted hot transfluid across his chest and servo, and his valve throbbed in the slick of all the lubricant.

When Megatron’s processor finally returned to him and the blue-white arcs of charge stopped dancing across his frame, he started to inspect the damage done to his weapon. Some dents, and a lot of mess, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed or explained away.

With finally some peace of mind, he recalled those thoughts that had just gotten him so close to the edge. What _would_ he do if somebody walked in on him in such a state? No matter, that was for another time. Now was the time to rest, finally.

**Author's Note:**

> Done as a request! Find out how to request stuff from me [here!](https://zenniet.tumblr.com/post/189864077750/how-to-request)


End file.
